


Baldr's Wager

by Ozymanreis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Curiosity, First Kiss, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Mistletoe, unestablished relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5512679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no such thing as fate. Probability, however, can be skewed in one's favor, and Sherlock gets to tell a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baldr's Wager

**Author's Note:**

> I consider this a spiritual prequel to, "[The Stars Are Confused](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1706381)."

****There’s no such thing as coincidence. And meanings ascribed to frivolous holidays (especially religiously motivated ones) only serve to pretty up the futility of the fight against finite life. Or so Sherlock believes.

Therefore, rather than designate this Christmas Eve to the effort of flying to see his parents, or even spending time with his geographically closer brother (who wouldn’t want to see him anyhow), the detective is out in the woods taking cuttings of spruce trees, though he isn’t sure why.

Oh sure, Sherlock had been planning an experiment, testing the absorption of blood and other forensic evidence by conifers for a while, but it could’ve happened in the summer. Not that he particularly minds being cold, or even putting on three layers in order to walk through the snow for hours.

Even where he _is_ … there were more accessible spots, though this one is far out enough that hardly anyone could see him well enough to ask questions.

In truth, however, the main, unvoiced reason that he forbids himself from speaking (because it was ridiculous), is that he’d felt a pull — heat of the moment, and set his sights for _somewhere_.

So, subconsciously, he waits, focusing on the branches, pruning shears perched in one hand, the other placing the wood in a satchel hanging at his side.

Fifty-six minutes later, the universe seems to answer his patience.

A prickling on the back of his neck, another _pull_ , tells him to look up. There, between two trees, two brown eyes, fixed on him. Jim Moriarty steps forward into the clearing: careful, timid as a fawn and nearly as graceful.

Immediately Sherlock notes that the man had forgone his usual suits for a black, woolen overcoat, stopping right beneath his hips; all soft, straight lines, hands in his wide pockets. A knitted, brown and cream, infinity scarf situated properly around his neck, the slightest of cold-tinged blushes high on his cheeks. The detective catches the slightest dash of tongue poking out from between his lips as Jim wet them, smiling wide. “Sherlock Holmes.” It’s an almost customary greeting of his, to say his full name as such.

Jim’s voice is warm, fond, a melodious contrast to the frigid air. Something in it makes Sherlock forget there’s supposed to be a divide between them. Not that there ever was, aside from the artificial labels the papers liked to ascribe. _Simple breakdowns for the simple-minded…_ Easy enough to dismiss, but spending enough time among the ordinary tended to cloud Sherlock’s judgment towards things he didn’t actively consider.

“James Moriarty.” Sherlock’s heart flutters, though he can’t say why. “You followed me.”

Jim shrugs, shoulders bumping against his ears. “Mostly.”

“Why?”

“You wandered out in the woods. I figured you had a good reason. Hardly a leisurely walk.” He reaches up, plucking a few slivers of tree needles, slipping them into his breast pocket, “And spruce tastes quite lovely when infused with vodka.”

“There are nearer spruce trees to your flat.”

“Could tell you the same.”

Sherlock huffs through his nose, placing the shears back in the bag, folding his arms. Their eyes meet, and they stare at each other for ninety-seven seconds before Jim breaks it, eyes wandering just above the detective’s lovely curls.

He points above them lazily, a mischievous glint in his eye, “Look there.”

Sherlock cranes his neck up, eyes following the direct path of the finger. “Mistletoe.” The parasite is growing from a high-up branch, entwined to look almost natural, if not for a few out-of-place white berries against the evergreen.

“You’re standing under it.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles skeptically, “And you wish to pay tribute to Baldr?”

“Is _that_ what the kids are calling it nowadays?” Jim wets his lips again, tiniest of smirks radiating his face, “Alright. I’ll bite: what are you talking about?”

“Thor’s brother,” he replies, breath hanging white puffs in the air. “I don’t know the tale particularly well, but the god Baldr — all things in the world vowed not to hurt him, except for mistletoe. Knowing this, Loki tricked another god into shooting an arrow, tipped with the parasite, at Baldr. He died quickly, not to be reborn until…” His face twists into confusion, quickly let go. “Can’t remember, exactly. But when he was, his mother promised all who passed under the plant would have a kiss.”

As he’d been speaking, Jim had stepped closer, enough that their pearly breaths meet in the air. “Roundabout euphemism, but… yes.”

Looking down his nose, Sherlock notices for the sixth time in his life just how much shorter Jim is than him. He’s too close, yet he’s still comfortable. His skin is ivory, almost as pure as his teeth, only peppered by his stubble. “And why would I let that happen?”

“Laws of tradition?” Jim suggests, almost hopeful.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, letting his arms unfurl, hand subconsciously sweeping the curls drifting over his brow. That _pull_ again. It’s not just curiosity, it’s something more. Something larger than himself, swelling in his chest. “As if that’s ever affected me.”

It comes out less certain than the words imply. Jim hears it. “Oh. If it’s going to be like that, then…” His voice decrescendos into a whisper, “Because you want to.”

“No excuses.” Sherlock agrees. He hadn’t known until now, but how _like_ Jim to pull answers straight from his mind. Ducking his face down, eyes closed, their mouths find each other in an almost blind, clumsy press.

Jim tastes of peppermint, honey, ginger, sweets. Vaguely, Sherlock wonders if Jim _ever_ eats savory things (he _has_ to, right?), but forces himself to remember this is only the surface. Curiosity (ostensibly) compels him to swipe his tongue forward, pleased at how easily the shorter man yields.

Cigarettes, but at least a day ago. Jim steps forward, Sherlock follows his lead until his back hits the trunk of the tree. His hands clasp at his waist, trying to find sure footing, a solid form to cling to. There’s something else, something with darker tones — coffee? Black tea? His senses are racing to work at even half efficiency, awash in something odd, pooling under his stomach.

It’s literally on the tip of his tongue. 

It’s…

_It’s-_

Jim breaks away before his epiphany, both breathing hard, a single shiver running between them. “Cold,” he states, blandly as he can manage, blinking rapidly in an attempt to get his pupils to shrink to normal size.

“Yes.” Sherlock nods. No longer working on his project, mind hazy and unfocused, the minutia of living have seeped back in. The bark is scratchy, hooking on stray threads of his coat.

The shorter man bites his lower lip, torn between asking to leave together, and knowing that if he does, he might get denied. “I’m going to leave now.” He backs away, boots crunching in the snow. “You may follow me, if so inclined.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if I simply came with you?”


End file.
